Ghost
by boredsvunut
Summary: What happens when you can't let go?
1. Prologue

1(Disclaimer: Law & Order: SVU belongs to that brilliant man, Dick Wolf and the big company called NBC. If they were mine, I would be on a beach right now, instead of in the middle of a messy Atlantic Canadian spring/winter. It's April. And it's snowing!)

(A/n: This is another one of my very odd ideas that I've had rolling around in my brain for a couple of days. I thought I'd post it and see what you think. It's weird for the sake of weirdness. Oh, yeah. One more little thing. I'm kind of shaky on the rating, so if you think it's too low, tell me.)

You can't keep her off your mind. Staring at the plain, grey walls, the steel bars, listening to the conversations between inmates and guards and the jingling of keys as the same guards walk through the prison, you can't get her out of your head. Her face, her smile, her laugh. . . . She's like a ghost, determined to haunt you until she makes you go mad.

You push yourself up from the bottom bunk and pull an old photo from where it's stuck to the wall. You're carrying her on your back, the strong young man you were back then. She's all smiles, with those wide, innocent dark eyes, long dark hair and those long legs wrapped around you. She's laughing, leaning over your shoulder. You were children. You thought you were adults, but in reality, you were just children.

You remember that day even though it was over twenty years ago. She caught a cab from Manhattan to your mother's house in Queens. You remember that your mother adored her. It was the fall - November? No. October. A couple of months after her birthday. She hounded you about not getting her a present, like women do.

You remember giving her the ring you'd bought a few days before. A promise ring, she called it, as she slipped it on her left hand. You were too young to get married, according to your meddling parents, but you were sure she was going to be yours.

Watching that smile come across her face, as she shyly leaned in to kiss your cheek - that's a memory you're not ever going to forget. Then she jumped up on your back, wrapping her arms around you. You can see the ring on her finger in the photo - a simple gold band, set with her birth stone, because you were too poor to afford what you wanted to give her - a diamond.

Your cell mate, some Spanish kid you think is named Ruiz, looks down from his bunk and sighs. "Hope she was worth it, man." He comments, sounding uninterested. "Pretty girl, though."

Yeah. She was a pretty girl. You wonder if she still is. Probably. You wonder if she's married. Probably - no man in his right mind would have let her go. And you didn't let her go. She left you. One day everything was going fine and the next, she was crying and packing. She left her ring behind, too.

You pull the chain from under your grey prison jumpsuit and study the ring hanging off it. It's a simple thing - you were just seventeen when you bought it, after you saved three months to buy it for her. She mentioned her birthday and you kicked yourself when you realized you didn't have enough to get her what you wanted her to have. So you waited and you scraped every penny to buy her that.

And that winter, you took her to bed for the first time. She was terrified, you remember. She'd heard so many horror stories from her friends that it took a lot of persuasion on your part to calm her down and get her to trust you. She never was very trusting. And she was quiet. Unlike other girls, she never talked your ear off for hours on end about pointless things, like who was dating who and the lives of the stars under the Hollywood sign. She only talked a mile a minute when she was excited.

"Hey, Lombardo." One of the hacks is standing outside the cell door. "C'mon."

You blink at him for a minute, startled. Then you remember. You've got a parole hearing, today. It's not like it matters, anyway. She'll haunt you whether you're behind the wall or a free man. Your lawyer's convinced you've got a shot at getting paroled - you've been in twelve years. It doesn't make any difference to you - your life went on hold, after she left.

You married a nice young girl three years after she said goodbye. Your new wife was beautiful and intelligent, but she just wasn't the woman you wanted. The marriage ended in divorce about a year after the wedding, to your mother's disappointment. But you just kept on going - kept working, kept winning cases, kept your life together, until those damned cops showed up at the door. They had you cornered.

You let the prison guard put the cuffs on you, hearing the familiar, sharp click as they lock. He's beside you, one hand on your arm, urging you to move down the hall. Prison's been a cold place. You've never been accepted here. Maybe the outside world won't be so damned bad.

When she left you, she took a piece of you with her. And you want it back. She took half of your heart with her - you want it back. For the first six months, you tried to kill her memory with cheap bourbon, whiskey and stale cigarettes in various bars all over Manhattan until your older brother, dispatched by your meddling mother came and pulled you out.

Ma. You think about her - she was always so worried about her boys, but she only ever got in the way of things. There was a song that suited your mood back then - something sung by some cowboy - you half-remember it, now, walking down the halls of a prison. A prison that cops put you in.

She's a cop. The love of your life is a New York City Police Officer. The same as the bastards who put you here. You can still see her, sometimes, when it's late and the cell block's quiet. All polished up in her formal uniform, when she graduated from the Academy. She was so proud to be a cop.

If you get out, today, you have to see her. You have to talk to her. Part of you argues that she's a cop and you're a felon - she won't come near you, so why risk it? Why risk getting hurt again? You're like a damned junkie - you crave the thing that hurts you the most. Another part of you asks a question. Why the hell can't you just leave her alone? Move on.

But you know you can't leave her alone. You can't move on until you know why she left. She hurt you before - the smart thing would be to leave her alone and find someone else. You're like a child, playing with fire - you know you're going to get burned, but you can't pull away. You're fascinated by it. Or in your case, her.

If she's married, then you're screwed. Some people still take 'til death do us part' and 'I do' seriously. And if you remember right, she's one of them. If she's got the wedding band and a husband, she won't leave him for you - her ex-boyfriend the felon. You pray she doesn't. Even though you know you don't have a shot with her, a wedding ring will put more walls in the way.

Huh. The mind of a lawyer, one educated at Fordham is still with you, even after twelve years in prison. You did legal work for your fellow inmates for a year or two, until you got bored. A top-rated education, a career on the rise - you were this close to partnership in the firm when it all went down the tubes. And it was your fault. You didn't cover your tracks well enough - you got cocky.

You remember the prosecuting Assistant District Attorney - another brunette. Pretty, young and a fine attorney. What the hell was her name? Carmichael. You vaguely remember arguing a case against her, once, and she sunk you. Fast. Just like she did when she put you away.

You didn't have a chance, even with one of the best attorneys your father's money could buy defending you. Carmichael had a rock-solid case that had been made by first-rate detectives. You knew you were screwed, when you were picked up. You didn't think they'd suspect you - a nice lawyer, with a solid career, no record - you didn't think they'd look at you.

The guard steers you into a room and frees you of the cuffs. You walk in and find yourself looking at the parole board. Here's your chance. Maybe your expensive, fancy education will do you good here.

Two hours later, you step back to your cell, a free man. You've called your mother - she cried and talked intelligibly for a few minutes. You clean out your cell, taking what few personal items you have. You stop, looking at the scattering of notebooks, papers and photos - you don't want them. You don't want anything to remind you of this life.

The guards let you change into normal clothes and they hand you a hundred dollars - money that comes with release. You have terms on your parole, of course - no weapons, no drugs - the usual. Plus you have to go see a shrink for therapy. After they release you from the prison, you catch the next bus back into civilization.

Your mother's waiting for you, crying. You pretend to be her loving son for a few minutes, then hail a cab. This is what it's like to be a free man again. You have family you should go see - your father, your brother and your little sister, but right now, you want to see the apartment that your father bought for you and that your mother has kept neat for twelve years.

You use the elevator and unlock the door. The place is bright and clean - the way your mother likes things to be. You're a free man again. No bars, no guards, no other guy on the bunk above you. You have space. Not a cramped cell. You realize you're hungry - you need to buy food, if you're going to survive. Through letters, your cousin has promised you a job at his law firm. You'll have to go see him tomorrow morning. But right now, you just want to breathe the clean air and enjoy the freedom.

You wonder what she's doing now. Is she still a cop? Is she happy? A beautiful woman like that should be happy. Is she still single? You wonder if she ever thinks about you. You don't know what's happened to her. You don't know if she's married, or worse, hurt or killed in the line of duty. It doesn't matter. You have to see her, so her ghost will leave you alone at night.

(A/n: This is just a prologue - the next chapter will involve everyone's favorite detectives.)


	2. One

1I sigh, studying the squadroom around me, bored. My partner disappeared into the boss's office, a little under a half-hour ago. And I haven't heard a peep since. I haven't heard any kind of an argument going on - that usually happens between those two, when they collide.

I turn my eyes to the sign on the upper wall of the precinct, below the ceiling. _NYC Detectives. . . . The Greatest Detectives in the. . . . WORLD. _Ha. It's the union's idea of a morale booster and I've seen a thousand of them, all over police precincts.

I glance back down from the sign, as my co-worker, Detective John Munch walks by. "Hey, Munch - you know what the Captain wants with Elliot?"

"Why should I know?" He asks, in his usual, annoying sarcastic manner that makes me want to punch him, sometimes.. "I'm as much out of the loop as you are, sweetheart."

"Munch, call me anything like that again and I'll kick your ass." I warn, catching a grin from his partner, Fin Tutuola. "But seriously - they've been in there a half-hour and when those two butt heads, you can hear it a mile away. Unless Cragen suddenly soundproofed his office"-

"They're not arguing. But I don't know what's going on."

Captain Donald Cragen's office door opens, catching my attention.. "Liv - c'mere." The boss meets my eyes. But they look the same as they always do - dark and stubborn, never showing what he's thinking.

I push my chair back and walk across the floor. He called me by my nickname, so things can't be _that _bad. "What'd I do this time?" I ask, expecting Cragen to at least give up a smile or something, but he only shakes his head. "Sit."

"What's up?" I take a chair and glance at my partner. Elliot Stabler returns my look and sighs. "What's going on?"

Cragen steps behind his desk and sits, running one hand over his bald head. "Before your time, about twelve years ago, we popped a guy on a string of rapes - we were only able to get him on five, but we're still not sure how many he actually did."

"Yeah. And is there a reason for all this hush-hush and calling me in here? If the case was before my time"- I shake my head, slowly. This doesn't make sense..

"That's what _I_ said." Elliot comments. "The guy's name is Michael Lombardo - he was a rising star in some fancy law firm when we busted him - he was close to being made a partner. Daddy bought him the best attorneys in the state, but Abbie nailed him. Put him away for ten to fifteen."

"Lombardo. I know the name." I run my fingers through my hair and sigh..

"Yeah. You probably do. It was all over the papers." Cragen rearranges some paperwork.

"I stopped reading the papers years ago." I protest. "The ones in this city are nearly as bad as the damned tabloids, sometimes. So what's this got to do with me?"

"Lombardo's cell mate was acting as a prison snitch for the boys down at the 2-7 in exchange for a reduced sentence." Cragen sighs. "He was released this morning, on parole and this snitch went though the stuff Lombardo left behind. Van Buren sent it over, after her guys got it."

"What was it?" I lean back in the chair. I watch the look traded between two men - two who really do care for me. It was a look that said _should we tell her or not? _"Whatever the hell it is, tell me." I persist.

"Liv, you"-

"Whatever it is, just show me." I cut my partner off.

Cragen hands a file folder to Elliot, who sighs and hands it to me. I flip it open and bite my lip. There are a dozen sheets of plain notebook paper with some disgusting sexual scenario described on them - brief, short little paragraphs, involving me and this nutcase. His writing is perfect and neat - precise. I come across something else - a snapshot.

I wince, recognizing myself at seventeen. It's a photo taken by my then-boyfriend's mother, in her backyard. I was on his back, almost like a piggyback. I remember the ring he gave me that day, as a late birthday present. I wore it on my left hand, because according to our parents, we were too young to get engaged and get married, so he bought me what I called a promise ring.

"Oh, crap." I rub my hands over my face. My makeup's long gone - I haven't been home in three days and I've maybe gotten three hours sleep in the last forty-eight hours. We got slammed with a bunch of allegations against a teacher at a school and the guy took off, when he heard. We only found him and booked him this morning.

"What?" Elliot's leaning over my shoulder. "You know the girl?"

"Yeah. I know her really well. That's me when I was a teenager."

"What the hell?"

"Yeah. My boyfriend's mother took this, back then - must have been October of '83. I'd just turned seventeen, back in August. We wanted to get married, when we were still in high school, but his parents were dead against it and Mom - that was the one time she truly gave a damn about what I did. We dated on and off through high school and all the time I was in college and at the Academy. We were living in the same crappy apartment when I was a rookie on the job. I was bringing home thirty grand a year and he was a law student at Fordham - Daddy was paying for school, but nothing else."

"So why aren't you married to this guy?" Elliot tips his head to one side.

"Didn't work out. If I worked a few hours overtime for a little bit of extra cash to put away or to cover a bill or something, he got pissed off. If I went for a beer with the guys, he got pissed off. If I wanted to go have a good time with some friends of mine on a Saturday night, he'd fight me all the way to the door. He was a control freak. I couldn't take it anymore, so I left."

"And you haven't seen him since?" Cragen's got his hands folded in front of him.

"Nope. After I left, I never saw him again - Thank God."

"Guy got a name?" Elliot looks at me.

I swallow. "Michael Lombardo."

I watch my partner and the boss trade a look, again, and Elliot sighs. "Did you have any other reason for leaving him besides the whole control freak thing?"

I rub my eyes, remembering. "Yeah. It took me a long time to admit it to myself, but I was convinced when I left that he was stepping out on me, you know what I mean? That there was someone else."

"Do you have any clue where he's going to go, after this?" Cragen raises an eyebrow. "Now that he's out?"

"I haven't seen the guy in nearly twenty years." I protest, crossing my legs. "His mother was living out in Queens - she might still be there. His father came into money in the late '80's, in real estate and on the stock market - he's probably still be living out in the Hamptons. His big brother, Jimmy was living in Brooklyn, when Mike and I dated - I don't know what happened to Jimmy or where he's at. Then there's his little sister, Angie. She was living in Queens with Mom, when Mike and I broke up, but I think I remember her getting married, a few years ago."

"Did he ever do anything odd? Anything that didn't seem right? Did he ever threaten you?"

I glance back, startled by that voice. It's the shrink that works our cases, Dr. George Huang, as he steps into the office. "Besides him being a complete control freak? No. Honestly, I didn't notice anything. We were kids, doc. And I know he couldn't have gotten away with threatening me. His family basically took me in. I was one of theirs."

"Did they?" Elliot raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah. If Mike so much as yelled at me or said something that he shouldn't have said, his older brother and his father were both on him. Old school gentlemen, the father and the brother." I stifle a yawn.

"Olivia, go get some sleep." Cragen orders. "Elliot - finish the paperwork and try to run down this nutcase's family."

I step out of his office and start toward the stairs to the crib. I'm about to shut the door and drop onto a bunk, when I realize Elliot's still behind me. "What?" I demand, turning around.

He shuts the door and looks at me, seriously. "Liv."

"What?" I'm tired, worn-out and he's pissing me off.

"You remember telling me that you lost your virginity at seventeen? It was a while back - you remember?"

"Yeah. Believe me - I'm gonna remember that. Why?"

"Was it him? Lombardo?"

I glare at my partner. "I don't think you really need to know that, do you?"

"Olivia, I'm not asking you to embarrass you."

"Then why? What the hell does it matter? Why do you need to know who the first guy I had sex with was?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to embarrass you - you know that. I wouldn't be asking you if it wasn't important."

I sigh. "Fine. If you really think you have to know, it was him. But I still don't see what the big deal is."

He steps toward me. "Liv, I wouldn't be asking this, if I didn't think I needed to know."

And he wouldn't. I know him well enough to know that he respects my privacy and only asks personal questions like that, when he feels he has to. "Fine. You know what you gotta know - get lost so I can get some sleep."

He grins. "Got any eye drops downstairs?"

"On top of my desk." I reply, moving toward a bunk.


	3. Two

You find yourself in a bar. This seems so familiar. You did this same routine every night for six months, after she left. Went into a corner dive and spent most of the night drinking. You borrowed some money from your mother and now you're nursing your third Scotch on the rocks.

There's a pretty girl a couple of stools down, with an empty glass in front of her. A pretty little redhead. She could be fun. You're wondering if you should go talk to her, offer her a drink, when a tall dark-headed guy steps up with a leather jacket in his hands. Boyfriend, you guess, watching him drape it over her shoulders. Damn it.

You finish your drink and order a beer. That was always her drink of choice. She stayed away from the hard stuff and you never once saw her falling down drunk. She always had a two-drink limit. You guessed it had something to do with her mother, but you never pushed it. You didn't want to hurt her. You never wanted to hurt her.

There's a jukebox in the corner of this pit. You've ignored the music, till now. When you hear the old, slow, country song, it reminds you of the situation you're in right now.

_Nickels and dimes, memories and wine. She's on his mind once again. The same old stool, the same old fool. Played by the rules, but didn't win. There's an old love in his heart that he can't lose. He tried forgettin', but he knows that it's no use. He's got a fool-hearted memory. It won't let him see that she walked out the door. He's got a fool-hearted memory. And he sits patiently here every night so it can fool him more._

She was yours. And even now that she's gone, you can't get rid of her. She's always there. Sometimes drifting around at the back of your mind, to not distract you, but during the lonely nights, her memory's the only thing you can see and feel. You did everything by the book and played by the rules, but you couldn't win the girl.

_She was his girl, his only world, that string of pearls that slipped away. A thousand dimes, a thousand times. He doesn't mind what they say. He fills the jukebox, then plays the same old song. He fills his glass and then he turns her memory on. But it's a fool-hearted memory. It won't let him see that she walked out the door. He's got a fool-hearted memory. And he sits patiently here every night so it can fool him more . . ._

You can't get rid of her memory. You can't let her go. Even though she left you, you can't let her go. You just can't. You love her, but you just can't see that she left. You didn't make that choice. She did.

You're letting her have power over you. No woman should have power over a man, but she does. You remember what it was like, to go out with her. Every guy in the place was either drooling or snapping their necks to look at her. The women snubbed her and the men adored her. You were always so proud to know that she was going to go home with you, at the end of the night. She was yours.

Another song on the jukebox - a song for the couples in the bar.

You down your beer in a single gulp, hearing the piano and fiddle part. She didn't like to dance, but she still believed in love songs. She liked them. It was almost childlike, her faith in those old songs. Like they could actually come true.

_I'm not the hero who will always save the day. I don't always wear the white hat, don't always know the way. I may not even be the dream you wanted to come true. But I'll always be the man in love with you. I'm not the key that opens every door. I don't have the power to give you all you want and more. But when you're needing something special you can hold on to, I'll always be the man in love with you. I never could work miracles. There may be others who can do what I can't do, but no one else could be as good as me at loving you._

You order a second beer and sigh, watching the couples on the floor, swaying in each other's arms, whispering and laughing. They're mostly young and in love. Like you were once. You could have been happy with her. But she walked away. And you still don't know why.

You don't know why she had to shatter your dreams, with a single word, a few tears and a closing of a door. When she closed that door, it was the worst sound you've ever heard. You have to find her and find out what went wrong. What you did to make her leave. You have to see her.

You tried calling her old number, one that will be permanently ingrained in your memory from a payphone, but it was disconnected, probably a long time ago.

_So when the world won't turn the way you wish it would and the dreams you have don't come a-right as often as they should, remember that there's someone there whose heart is always true. I'll always be the man in love with you. Remember that there's someone there whose heart is always true. Someone there to help you make it through. I'll always be the man in love with you . . ._

You're going to be in love with her till the day you die. If it's lasted this long, it's not going away any time soon. When did she leave? Before Christmas of 1989. That was it. Your sister-in-law had just had your twin nieces in November - Julia and Jennifer. God. They'd be fifteen now - all grown up. And you haven't seen them in years.

You were happy - you'd bought her an engagement ring and you were going to give it to her on Christmas Eve, but then, two weeks before Christmas, you came home from class and she was packing. When you asked why, she started crying. You hated to see her cry.

You tried to calm her down and talk to her, find out what was wrong, but she didn't want to talk. She left. You gave her a couple of days and then called her friends, her boss, your brother, your sister, your parents, and then, finally, you called her mother. When Serena gave her the phone, she answered and she sounded so beaten, so heartbroken, it hurt you.

When she realized it was you, she hung up, promptly. That hurt you even more that when she left. The pain stabs through your heart. Seeing the pain on her face, when she left, then hearing it in her voice, then having her hang up on you - it feels like she was determined to hurt you.

But you still don't know why. And it's been with you for years, that one burning question. You sent her letters - she mailed them back. You tried to call her - she wouldn't take your calls, according to her mother. You don't know what you did to her, but it must have been pretty damned bad, because one day, Serena gave you hell for hurting her daughter, before hanging up.

You must have done something to her, to get her mother on your ass. To get her mother to care. Either you did something to her and don't remember it or she's a liar who fed her mother a bunch of crap.

You've checked the phone books and called every Benson in Manhattan, to no avail. Either she got married and changed her name, her number's unlisted or she's moved. You don't think that the last possibility is a really solid one. She loves this city. She was born here.

You think about calling the Police Department and asking if she's still with them, but you doubt that they give out that kind of information to just anyone. But you have to see her. You grimace, inwardly, thinking about what her reaction would be to seeing you. She probably knows you're a convicted rapist - she reads the papers, probably, like every other normal person in this city. And she's a cop.

You wonder if she knows that you've spent the last twelve years in Attica. You wonder if she'd care.

Of course she'd care. She's sworn to uphold the law. She's a cop. She'd care that you've spend over a decade in prison. You know that things don't always work out the way they do in the movies - the guy doesn't always get the girl no matter how many times he screws up or how badly he screws up. But you can't seem to get yourself to listen. You're still convinced that she loves you.

But you know she doesn't. She's moved on. It's been fifteen years since she walked out of your life - she must have moved on, by now. She might even have a family of her own.

You put a few bills down, to cover your tab and stumble out into the street. It's been years since you've been able to drink and it's hitting you harder than you thought it would. You stumble, as you walk out to the curb, to hail a cab.

You don't know how you make it inside your building, into the elevator and through your apartment door. But you trip on the floor and go sprawling, face down. It takes you a minute to drag yourself back up to your feet.

You shed your clothes and crawl into bed. But you don't sleep. She keeps you up for most of the night. Her smile, her eyes, the feel of her skin under your hands, and that body. She was built like an actress or a model from the '40's or the '50's. But it wasn't just her body that had you wrapped around her finger and under her thumb. It was her personality. She was stubborn, yes, but gentle. She would have been a fine mother for your child.

Again, you find yourself wondering if she'd care, if she knew you were a convicted, paroled rapist. She would.

You remember, once, while you were curled up on the couch with her, she admitted something. About her father. He, too, was a rapist, who'd assaulted her mother. That throws the whole thing out of whack. She's not going to get involved with you.

Damn it. You know you never had a chance, anyway, but it still hurts to know that she'll never even want to give you a shot. She'll be repulsed by you, so maybe you're better off just leaving her alone. Being without her won't hurt as much as her rejection will.

(A/n: The songs are 'Fool Hearted Memory' and 'The Man In Love With You', by George Strait.)


	4. Three

I wake up, a few hours later, feeling better than I did a while ago. I drag myself up, as my body protests. On my way down, I nearly collide with my partner. "You're awake." Elliot comments. "I was just coming up to wake you - I found Lombardo's brother in Jersey City. Figured he'd want to talk to you."

"Do I look like hell?" I question.

"Liv, you never look like hell."

I hit him, lightly and make my way down. My ex-boyfriend's older brother is standing in the squad, looking a little uncomfortable in his jeans and dark t-shirt. Jimmy Lombardo looks the same way I remember him. Solid as a rock with a square-jawed, stubborn face and dark eyes and hair. He's a little shorter than his younger brother - maybe an inch or so taller than me. He glances up when he sees me and grins. "How you doin'?"

I always liked this guy. Not that I'd date him, but I liked him as a friend. "Good. How are things going on your end?"

"Good. God, how long's it been?"

"I don't know." I shrug.

"You look great - as young as you did when you first rolled around with my kid brother."

I laugh, quietly. Since I was about sixteen when I met his brother, I know that's a joke. "Little brother's coming home, huh?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "Ma called me this mornin'. And he can stay the hell away from me. I told him, when he went in - forget I exist."

"But you're his big brother - you don't think he'd come to you?"

"Not after what he's done. Hell, I wish they'd kept him locked up for what he'd done. I got a wife, twin fifteen-year-old girls and a twelve-year-old son - I'm not havin' that son of a bitch around 'em. I ain't havin' him around."

"So he won't come to you - what about your father?" I shove one hand into my pocket.

"Dad's done with him. Washed his hands of him when the jury came back with the verdict. Always had faith in the system - if twelve people say you're guilty, you're guilty. Angie's husband, Bobby, won't have him around the kids - they got two boys, one girl. So he ain't welcome there. Only one he'd go to would be Ma, out in Queens."

"He's your little brother." I protest. "Are you sure"-

Jimmy cuts me off. "He's my brother by blood and that's it. He's sick. He's a screw-up - always been a screw-up. I don't want him around. His type don't change - I don't care how many shrinks they've been in to see - they don't change. Besides that, he scares the hell outta my wife."

"So you haven't heard from him?" I raise an eyebrow.

"He wrote me, a couple of times, when he first went in. I wrote back, told him to lose my number and my address and forget I existed. My wife was an FDNY paramedic. My father-in-law's a retired police Lieutenant - they've seen what his type of whack jobs do to people. I don't want to risk havin' him around my kids. The only one that will believe him is Ma - she's the only one who won't see what the rest of us see. She thinks he's still her innocent little boy."

"Your parents divorced when?" I need to get inside his little brother's head, or try to.

"'81. Mikey would have been about fifteen, I was seventeen and Angie was ten or eleven."

"Who filed for it?" I question.

"Ma. She came home one day, when we were all in school, and found Dad in bed with the neighbor's wife. She'd thought he was steppin' out on her for years, and then she had the proof. After they finished the settlement, Dad moved out to Connecticut, and I think that screwed Mikey up, not havin' the old man around. Ma couldn't keep him in line - he needed a father figure. I tried, but I was just a kid myself. He was never the same kid, again - I really think he was pissed off at my mother for divorcing my father."

I nod, letting him talk. "So no one explained it to him?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "You know Mikey - got rocks in his skull. He believes what he wants to believe. Ma tried to explain it him, but he had this idea in his head - it was her fault. I wondered if he'd ever bring a girl home and then a year after, this angel falls into his life." He grins at me. "You straightened him up, too. I thought you were gonna pull him outta that hole. Havin' a girl, it did somethin' to him. And when you walked away - not that I blame you, with the way the son of a bitch treated you - it just about killed him." He checks the watch strapped around his arm. "I gotta go pick up my kid - he's playing soccer in the park with a couple of friends."

I nod. "You have a number I can get you at? Just in case."

"Yeah." He scribbles down the number for me and grins. "It's good to see you, again. You know, some night you should come down and have dinner with Alex and the kids and I."

"Maybe." I show my old boyfriend's older brother to the door.

"Seems like a good guy." Elliot comments.

"Jimmy? Yeah. Sometimes he's a little too honest, but he's as straight-up as they come."

"While you were asleep, this came in." Elliot hands me a plain, white envelope. "Desk sergeant says it was hand-delivered. Are you seeing someone?"

"Huh?" I blink, startled.

He shakes his head. "C'mere." My partner turns me around, to face my desk. I didn't even look in that direction when I came down. Sitting there, is a bouquet of flowers - not roses, but white lilies. I slip my hands back into my pockets. "Why is it that only psychopaths send me flowers?" I ask, shaking my head.

"What?" Elliot glances at me, curious.

"I'm not seeing anyone. I haven't had a date in months. And these"- I pick up the flowers - "were always Mike's trademark gift. I'd get a bunch on my birthday, delivered to my door or to the precinct house. It's gotta be him." I drop back in my chair.

I pull latex gloves from a pocket and put them on, cracking the seal on the envelope. If the sender left prints, I don't want to smudge them and make them useless.

It's a letter, on plain white paper, written in the same, neat, precise handwriting that was on the papers in Mike's cell. I shudder, thinking about those. They're sick. I didn't think he was capable of thinking like that. I read it, once - he's talking about how he can't let me go and he needs me - it sounds like something a boyfriend might write, after his girlfriend has walked out. But we broke up fifteen years ago - I don't understand why he's doing this, now. My partner holds out a hand and I give it to him to read. There's nothing overly personal in there.

Elliot looks up at me, halfway through it. "He's talking about a girl named Mandy - who is she? Another victim - one we didn't find? A girlfriend?"

I shake my head. "Mandy - she's me."

"What?" He sits straight up in the chair.

"Calm down. It was just his stupid pet name for me." I push my bangs out of my eyes.

"Why the hell would he call you Mandy?"

"My middle name sparked that one." I shake my head, remembering.

"Huh?"

I manage to smile. "Amanda's my middle name. He knew I hated it, so he'd call me Mandy to piss me off. He thought it was funny."

"You pissed off is _not _funny." Elliot comments, dryly.

"Apparently, Mike thinks it is." Still wearing gloves, I pull the card from the flowers. It's the same writing as what's on the letter. It's only one word: _Mandy._ I roll my eyes and unwrap the flowers. I hand envelope, letter, card and wrapping to my partner. "You wanna run that to the lab? See if they get anything."

"What are you gonna do with those?" Elliot raises an eyebrow.

"I'm not keeping 'em." I drop them in the wastebasket beside my desk.

I bury myself in paperwork for the time being. There's nothing else I can do. Nothing else has popped up yet. Munch and Fin are in court on another case. Today's just a slow day. Elliot reappears, a half-hour later. "Got prints off the card - Lombardo's."

"I knew that. But unless we can arrest him for sending me flowers - which, the last time I checked, _wasn't _illegal - you can help me with this crap." I nod to the stack of files in front of me.

He takes half of the paperwork over to his side of the desk. "We know he's violent, but will he be violent toward you?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. But prison changes people, in a lot of ways. He wasn't violent, when I knew him. But that was before he spent twelve years in Attica."

"Mm. True. We've seen that before, haven't we?"

I know what he means without him having to say it. Plummer, a.k.a Webber. Prison does a lot of things to people. But Plummer was innocent - he didn't belong there. I tuck my hair back behind my ear. "We're gonna have to wait and see."


	5. Four

You finally found her. You picked up an edition of the _New York Post _from a box this morning and she was on the front page, a child in her arms. She's Detective Benson, now. The article helped you find her. It told you where she works. You sent her flowers and a letter, to let her know that you're back in town. You wonder what her response was to that.

She's more beautiful than she ever was. You study her picture and grin. She cut her hair and dyed it, to lighten it. It frames her face and softens her a little. You remember the first thing that drew you to her - her height. You like tall women. You like being able to look them in the eye without having to bend over. When you met her, she was a slender five foot six inch high school student. And your waitress.

You grin at that. You and your moron buddies had crashed this corner diner, on a Friday night and this girl, in a little blue dress - a uniform - came over to your table. She had long legs, a nice body, a pretty face and long hair. Your stupid friends made a comment - something disgusting and sick and then, you watched her bite her lip. She was biting back something. It looked like she wanted to return fire, but it might have cost her the job. You stopped her, dealt out a couple of punches to shut up your friends and apologized. That was the first time she smiled at you.

Then, later, you went back and asked her out, after apologizing, again. She accepted and it all started from there.

You wonder if you should pay her a visit. Nah. You just got out of prison - you don't want to see the cops so soon, make them think you miss them on your ass. You don't want to visit her at the precinct, but you don't know where she lives. Then, the lightbulb goes off in your head. You can go sit outside the precinct and wait until she leaves and tail her. You've done it before.

You won't draw that much attention - you're just another guy. God gave you a brilliant mind. Your father was right.

Your doting mother has given you the keys to her car, until you get back on your feet. You don't start work for another week. You slip into the driver's seat of the old Ford - it dates from the time your parents were married and getting along - and start it. It still runs good - someone's been taking care of it. Your older brother, maybe?

Jimmy. You want to go down and see him and the wife and kids, but while you were in prison, he made it clear that he didn't want you around them. He believed the jury and the prosecution. You know what you've done - you've also done the time. Why can't they see that?

Then it hits you. You were convicted on five counts of Rape One. Nobody wants you around, because of that. They've all heard the stories on the news, from the mouths of the cops - sex offenders can't be rehabilitated. No one thinks prison has changed you. Your little sister Angie doesn't even want you around. But she's got kids and having Uncle Mike the Jailbird and Convicted Rapist around the dinner table isn't so great. Jimmy's got kids, too. Just before you went in, your sister-in-law Alex had a son - a little brother to your beautiful twin nieces.

Jimmy's daughters might know you, vaguely - they were about three, when you went in, but Angie's kids wouldn't know you at all. You don't even know their names. You know she's got two boys and a girl, but you've never seen them. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe it's better if you just leave them alone.

You've lost your skill at navigating the complicated Manhattan streets. You used to be able to drive through the city as well as or if not better than the cabbies. You get stuck in traffic for an hour.

It takes you another hour to find the 16th precinct mentioned in the article. The place is tucked away, on a couple of cross streets. Huh. Most police precinct houses are easy to find, but not this one. You park halfway down the street, close enough to watch, but not close enough to draw attention. You kill the engine and pick up the paper again.

The years have changed her looks a little. She doesn't look so young, anymore. She looks tired, in this photo, with the few lines spreading across her face. Her beautiful eyes are dark and hardened. The look of a veteran cop. Which she is. She graduated from the Police Academy in what year? '86. And she's been on the job ever since. You think about how long that is - she's been a cop for a little under nineteen years.

But the men still must follow her with their eyes, when she walks into a room. She's still beautiful. She's never had kids, you decide, looking at her figure. She's too perfect. If she's had them, she worked the weight off really well. You wonder if there's a husband to get in the way of things. You hope like hell not.

You sit on the curb, in the car for hours, silently, waiting. You smoke a whole pack of cigarettes, compulsively. It's a 'disgusting habit', according to your mother. It's also one you picked up in prison.

She finally steps out, at about nine. There is a man with her. Boyfriend? You wonder, silently, seeing his arm is behind her - putting his hand on her back. No. They don't seem to be close enough to be a couple. Is he a friend? Probably.

Wait a minute . . . Cops have partners. There's almost always two of them. Is he her partner? That would explain the friendly way they're walking out - close enough to be good friends, but not lovers. You've heard it said that a good partnership among cops is just like a strong marriage in the civilian world - they have their fights, but they always come back to each other.

She laughs at something he says. In the car, with the windows up, you can't hear that sound. But you wish you could. He stops her, when she reaches for the door of her car. A black Toyota. You fix the details of the car and the plate in your mind. He says something, his face serious. She smiles and stretches up to kiss him on the cheek.

You've never seen a cop do that. They must be close to that line between friendship and romance. He's not much taller than she is - they'd be perfect for each other.

You let her pull away from the curb and ease into traffic. After a minute or so, you start the car and follow her, staying back, keeping a car or two between you, but never losing sight of her. Stopped directly behind her, at a traffic light, you see that's she's tapping those long, slim, yet strong fingers on the wheel. She glances back at you in her rearview and you busy yourself with the dials on the radio, so she won't notice you.

You have an idea that she lives on the West Side. She loved that neighborhood. She grew up there. So she probably stayed there. You both get caught in a backup on the West Side Highway. After all, this is Manhattan. When traffic's moving again, she takes a turn-off and you do the same, still behind her.

She parks her car in a space and steps out, keys jingling in her hand, her scarf whipping in the wind. You watch, intently, from a few feet away, and on the other side of the street, so she won't suspect you of watching her. She's a cop. But you've outsmarted cops before.

She disappears from your line of sight - she walked through a door. You give it ten minutes, to be sure, then step out and cross the street. Her building's one of those with a lobby that anyone can get into with buzzers to each tenant's apartment.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God and the city for the NYPD's crappy salaries. If there was a doorman here, like there seems to be in almost every building these days, you'd have had to answer to him and alert her. Her building hasn't gone through a 'flip' yet.

You study the buzzers, looking for a name. There it is. _O. Benson. 4B. _Now you know her address. But it still doesn't really get you anywhere. You need to find out where her window is. How the hell are you going to get away with that? Damn it.

You walk back out and glance up, absently counting the floors. One. Two. Three. Four. But just knowing that she's on the fourth floor isn't enough. You need to know the building's layout to find her window.

A light comes on in one of the units - the second one right of the front door on her floor. A shade is rolled up and you see her standing there, in the window. You shove your hands in your pockets and keep walking, looking normal. You're just another guy. One of the millions of Average Joes in the city.

You go back to the car before she gets suspicious and start the engine for show. After a minute or two, you kill the engine and find the binoculars you stashed in the glove compartment. She's not a night owl. She never was.

She turns out the lights, about a half-hour later. You didn't even notice the time going by. She disappears from your line of sight and you switch the binoculars over to the right - her bedroom window, you assume.

She undresses, without drawing the shades. She's either too tired to care or she's comfortable with herself. God, she's beautiful. Her body looks even better than it did when she was young. That's a shock.

Occasionally, you used to run into an old friend and his wife. Half the time, you didn't recognize the wife. She'd changed from the hot young thing your buddy married into someone completely different - a housewife with no figure to be seen, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers, complete with a messy ponytail.

But she - you close your eyes, remembering. The girl had the body to knock 'em dead. Never mind that face. Hard to believe that she looks better at nearly forty than she did at twenty-one. She turns out the lights and draws the shades. She's gone to bed. Now you can do some exploring.

It takes some painstaking work, under the cover of darkness to find her fire escape. But when you finally do find it, you feel a little bit triumphant. The work paid off. It leads right into her living room. Tomorrow, while she's at work, you can leave her a little surprise.

She always liked surprises.

When you'd bring home flowers or chocolate or a cheap bottle of wine, to surprise her on a tight budget, she'd smile at you. It never took much to make her happy. The littlest thing would make that smile cross her face. It could be as simple as a single rose, when you were too broke to afford a full bouquet.

You remember Christmas morning with her. She was like a child, instantly awake the moment the sun started to rise over the city and turn the sky grey and never sleeping on Christmas Eve. You'd protest, loudly, but you liked to see her happy. So you'd oblige her constant nagging and pleading and pillow-thumping and get up with her.

But she was slow unwrapping her gifts. She took her time with things. You once asked her why, never meaning to hurt her. She looked at you, with those big brown eyes and sighed, the pain filling them. "It's habit, Mikey." She told you, quietly. "I didn't get that many gifts as a kid, so when I got them, I always took my time with them."

You hugged her around the shoulders and kissed her hair. You couldn't tell her that you understood the feeling, having grown up in a relatively normal, middle-class family, but you still could feel her pain. When she looked at you with those big eyes, whatever emotion was showing in those dark orbs went straight to your gut. Especially pain.

You wonder what brought your thoughts to Christmas and that particular moment. Oh, yeah. Her and surprises. She loved them. She'd never tell you what she wanted for a gift - she'd expect you to guess and surprise her.

Without her, your world seems dead. She was your ray of sunshine. You dragged yourself through everyday motions, forcing yourself to live and function, but it wasn't the same. You married, to please your mother and to try and ease the loneliness, but it didn't work out. Your wife couldn't deal with the fact that you were obsessed with another woman. You didn't expect her to. After the divorce, you went on living, always hoping for a glimpse of her, somewhere.

Every time you heard a soft, feminine laugh, or saw a woman with eyes the color of chocolate, you thought it was her. You knew it was pathetic, but you knew you had to have her. That you couldn't really live without her. You existed, but life was dull and dark without her. But she didn't know that. She was doing just fine, without you, according to her friends.

Prison life only deepened the pain of missing her. The ache deep in your chest. You thought it was going to kill you. Your mother sent you a package of things from home and you found that old picture of the two of you, when you were teenagers. It made the pain a little more bearable, having that old photo to look at and recall the memories. The good times. But the pain's still there.

You can't believe you've been nursing the heart she broke for fifteen years. You never thought this kind of heartache happened in the real world. It only happened in the exaggerated world of the silver screen. But you're walking proof that it does happen.

You think back to one of those good times you had with her. One summer, after you'd both graduated high school, you took her upstate to stay with a cousin of your mother's at his cottage on this lake. You swam together, you walked together and you tried to teach her how to catch a fish, to no avail. You took her out into this little town, where they were having a county fair, you recall.

You grin. Thirty dollars and an aching shoulder later, you won her a white teddy bear at one of those old carnival games. She held that thing the whole night, with one arm linked through yours. Funny what can make a woman emotional. It doesn't have to be expensive - it can be a simple stuffed animal.

God, any man who has her now is lucky. She's one of those women. The strong ones, who _do _stand by their men. Come hell or high water, she was right there, beside you. She'd be devoted to any man who treats her with the respect she deserves.

She stood by you through law school, when money was beyond tight, in that crappy little apartment where the cold air came in through the windows in drafts and the heat seldom worked. She didn't run back home to her mother, when times got tough. You had your fights. She was stubborn, with a streak of a temper. Push her far enough and it came roaring out. But she stayed. Until that day, a month before you were due to stand for the Bar.

You stop at an intersection and smile. She was beautiful, when she was angry. Her hair loose around her face and her eyes flashing and livid. Some men would have been scared of her, but you knew her too well. She had that gentle, open-hearted personality buried inside her - she'd never hurt anyone, unless it was beyond her control.

You loved her, for a thousand reasons. But her personality was just one. Another reason was that she was never afraid to speak her mind to you. She wouldn't hold back, worrying and thinking about things, instead of voicing them, like some women. If you were pissing her off, she'd plant herself in front of you, dig in her heels, raise her chin and give you hell, no holds barred. She wasn't scared to do that. If she was angry, you knew why, before you had to ask.

She never hid anything from you. Sure, sometimes, it took you a little bit of coaxing to get her to open up, but she never lied and never kept secrets. Anything she thought you needed to know, she told you. She was honest. And you loved her for that. You trusted her.

You hope you didn't do anything to hurt her. You never wanted to hurt her. You wanted her as your wife. You wanted her to have your child, someday. Any child she had would be gorgeous. Just like Mom.

She wasn't a churchgoer, but her faith in some things was unbelievable. Including you.

Four years of law school got so frustrating, with your father constantly breathing down your neck, throwing fits over your marks and complaining about his money going to waste. There were some nights, when you just wanted to say to hell with it and get a job washing dishes, somewhere. When you got frustrated, while studying, she'd look up from what she was doing and come over to you, to calm you down.

She'd even help you study and quiz you on things. Her own basic knowledge of the law from the Police Academy didn't help much, but she'd read the book and ask you the questions. She was intelligent and encouraging. She basically helped you through school.

You know she, too, had wanted to go to law school, once, but she didn't have a doting, rich parent willing to shell out for her education. And she'd laughed, once, that sitting behind a desk all day wasn't something she could do. She had faith in you that you could pass the exams and the Bar. She kept you calm, after a fight with your father.

She was one of those people. The rare ones that can calm anyone down, with a quiet word and a simple touch. You'd have never expected to see that quality in a cop, but she had it. You'd seen them before, of course. Your mother's friends, the nurses from the hospital where she worked and the shrink you were sent to, after your parents' divorce. The shrink you saw in prison was one of them, too. But you never expected to see it from her.

She was always throwing you curve balls. You never knew what to expect, most of the time. But you couldn't beat the feeling that she was made for you. You still can't.


	6. Five

I let myself into my apartment. Damn, it's been a long, slow day. But our slow days mean that the psychopaths have taken a vacation and aren't hurting anyone else. Like some innocent child. So I like the slow days. There's something not right here. I don't know how I know - it's a cop's instinct or something - but I know there's something wrong, here. I pull my gun from the holster and turn on the lights, hoping to get an element of surprise, if there's someone here.

The display on my coffee table catches my attention, first. On it is a combination of flowers - red roses and white lilies. Their heavy scent is enough to turn my stomach. I look down, careful not to touch anything. A newspaper clipping, from a couple of days ago catches my eye, as well as something else. A notebook. My heart hammers and my stomach lurches. I want to see what's in there, but I don't want to touch it. I whip my cell phone from my pocket and somehow manage to dial Cragen's number with shaking fingers.

He picks up, because he's still in the office. He never goes home. We've all seen the cot stashed in the corner of his office. "What?"

Every time I hear him answer the phone like that, I smile a little bit. Even now. "Don, it's Olivia." We're off the clock. I don't have to call him Captain all the time. The man's like a father to me.

"Something wrong, Liv?" A hint of concern comes into his voice. "You sound upset. Did something happen?"

"No, no. I'm okay. I - someone's been into my apartment. Whoever it was left me a surprise."

"Don't touch anything. Elliot's still here - we'll be there."

Within a few minutes, my boss and my partner arrive. "What the hell?" Elliot stops, looking at me, then at the display on my table. I rub my eyes. "I came home to that."

Don stands there, beside the chair where I'm sitting. He discreetly reaches and gives my shoulder a squeeze. I look up at him, startled, but he just meets my eyes with his own. "You didn't touch anything?" My partner questions, from the table, pulling gloves onto his hands.

"Elliot, I took the same damned classes you did. I know something about how to preserve a scene, okay?" The words come out harsher than I meant them to. I'm tired and not that I'll admit to anyone, more than a little freaked out. "Don't treat me like a rookie."

He looks at me and we trade apologetic looks. His, for questioning me, and mine for snapping at him. He picks up the small, plain notebook from the table and shifts the flowers. "Not much else here - the flowers and the notebook. You recognize this, Liv?"

I glance up he holds up a ring on a gold chain. I get up to look at it more closely and bite my lip. A simple gold band, set with my birth stone. I remember getting one identical to it, at seventeen from my doting boyfriend. Damn it. "Yeah. Mike and I"-

"Lombardo?" Elliot jumps in.

"Yeah." To Elliot, he's just another perp. To me, he's an ex-lover. "Mike and I wanted to get married while we were still in high school, but his parents wouldn't have it and Mom didn't want to see me grow up and leave her to fend for herself. He bought this for me, in October of '83 - I don't know what he meant by it, but I called it a promise ring. The chain I bought, after my first few months on the job - I didn't want to wear it and ruin it, so I just put it on the chain. I had it for six years, before I finally had enough of that son of a bitch and left."

"Why buy the chain?" My partner raises an eyebrow.

"Third month into my probie year, Karen and I delivered a baby in the subway. I bought the chain after that." I smile. We'd gone underground to check something out for transit security, my training officer and I, and then we saw a woman fall on the platform. We went over, obviously and realized she was about to deliver, right there. We called for EMS, but we wound up delivering the baby ourselves. A baby girl. I couldn't stop my hands shaking, as I handed the crying child to her mother.

"You know what I don't get?" I rub my forehead. "Why the hell is he doing this? I haven't seen him since we broke up."

Elliot glances at me, then back at Cragen. The two men both shake their heads. I roll my eyes. I'm being left out of the loop again. "Does someone want to tell me what's going on? There's something you're not telling me."

"Dave and I worked this one." Elliot shakes his head. "I told you about Rosetti, Liv, didn't I?"

Dave Rosetti. His old partner. The one who ate a bullet. "Yeah. You did. So you were working with him when you popped Mike - what's it got to do with anything?"

"The whole time we had him in the interrogation room, before his attorney showed up, he wouldn't answer anything. He just went on and on about this girl of his. We thought maybe a wife or a girlfriend, but we could never find her. All we found was his pissed off ex-wife who suspected him of cheating on her, because he'd called out another woman's name in his sleep, one night."

"She tell you what he said?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Mandy."

I sigh. "So it was me he was babbling about?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"But that still doesn't explain why he's doing this. Don't most _normal _people move on? It's been fifteen years."

"According to this guy, you were a once-in-a-lifetime-love." Elliot picks up the notebook and flips through the pages. After a minute or two, he shuts it and glances up at me, his eyes sick. Very rarely have I seen that look of horrified disgust and shock on his face. He's one of those seen-it-all veterans who can stomach almost anything. You have to be able to, to work in SVU.

"Lemme see." I reach out a hand.

"You don't wanna see this, Liv."

I glare at him. I'm not one of his kids who needs to be sheltered and protected. Sometimes he tends to forget that I'm not one of his girls. I'm a grown woman, who doesn't need a father or a big brother constantly looking over my shoulder, ready to run off all the bad boys in the neighborhood.

He sighs. "Olivia, this is some really sick shit."

I pull a pair of gloves onto my hands. "Hand it over."

He sighs and hands me the simple, spiral-bound book. I open it, flipping through the pages. Every detail of the sex life I had with Mike is written there, from the time I was seventeen. I bite my lip. It's not so much disgusting as it is humiliating. Now everyone's going to be able to read through six, nearly seven years of my sex life, written in full detail. I feel the blush rising up my face and cringe.

"Hey. It's okay." Elliot steadies me.

"Do you know how damned embarrassing this is?" I question, one hand over my eyes. I can't look him in the eye. I can't. "God, this is a nightmare from hell."

"Olivia." It's Don talking to me this time. "No one else has to see that."

I bite my lip, as the CSU techs arrive. They bag everything and dust for prints. "At least we don't need to take yours for exclusion." O'Halloran comments. For some reason, this guy's always in a good mood.

"Yeah. Run my print through the system and my name'll pop up in about two seconds." I comment, leaving my living room for my bedroom. I need a minute or two to gather myself.

I step in and gasp. My bedroom's been trashed, basically, the drawers pulled out from my dresser and gone through, my closet wide open, half of the clothes that did hang there scattered on the floor. The comforter and sheets from my bed are missing - the bed's been stripped.

On my dresser, I have a small box where I keep what little jewelry I own. It's been opened and sorted through. And above my bed, drawn on the wall is a heart. "Liv?" My Boy Scout of a partner has followed me. "Oh, God." He whispers, finding me standing in the middle of my destroyed room. "Cap, this you gotta see."

Cragen stops just behind him, then looks at me. I decide to check out my bathroom and see what mess this psychopath has created there. My makeup's been gone through and my usual shade of lipstick is missing. The bottle of perfume a friend gave me for Christmas has disappeared, too. But otherwise, he left my bathroom in one piece, thank God. I don't think I could handle two messes tonight.

It's nearly eleven, by the time CSU leaves my apartment and me to clean it up. Cragen goes with them, back to the precinct. But Elliot stays with me. "You can go home, too." I comment, picking up my clothes from the floor and beginning to re-hang them in my closet.

"No. You're freaked out."

"Who wouldn't be?" I comment. I had to go through everything and find what was missing. The heart on my wall was just lipstick - the shade I usually wear. I already washed my wall down.

"So what's all missing?" He questions.

"My lipstick, a bottle of perfume, a pair of earrings and a dress." I sigh.

"Who is this guy?" Elliot questions, as I put my closet back in some sort of order. "What's he want with your stuff?"

"It's gotta be Mike. Who else would know that much about what we did, when we were together?"

"Why don't you come and stay with me, tonight?"

I glare at him. "No. If he was violent and brave, he wouldn't have done this when I wasn't home. He would have broke in when I was home and attacked me."

"But clothes and stuff? I don't get it?"

I sigh and sit down at the edge of my bed. "It's this thing we used to do, when we were together. On the weekends, say if we went out Friday night, he'd dress me from head to toe, and if we went out on Saturday, I'd dress myself. I felt like a human Barbie, but it was fun. We'd laugh about it. It was just a thing, to see which one of us could dress me to draw the most attention."

I pull a fresh set of sheets from my closet and make the bed. I find a spare comforter and throw that on my bed, too. Finally, my apartment's looking somewhat normal, again.

Elliot's cell starts ringing, as I push the drawers back into my dresser. "Cragen wants us." He comments, snapping the phone closed.

"It'll be midnight before we get down there." I bite my lip, realizing I sound whiny. But I'm exhausted. I just want to sleep and forget that this nightmare isn't happening.

"I know you're tired." He reaches and places his hand on my lower back, to reassure me. "C'mon."

When we arrive, Cragen meets us. "I had them run the prints, we got from your place, now. Guess who they belong to."

"Me and Lombardo." I run my fingers through my hair. "So what's the big deal?"

"Do you wanna pick him up for B & E? Your call, Liv." The boss shoves his hands in his pocket.

I roll my eyes. "One thing a lot of people forget about with this guy - he graduated from Fordham Law with high marks. He's smart. He's just not loudmouthed about it. I don't see the point of picking him up on a charge like that, when Mama's gonna run right down and bail him out. He'll find a way out of it, somehow."

"Fordham?" Elliot blinks.

"Yeah. Daddy was paying for it. I helped him study, being the good little girlfriend I was. I helped him pass final exams his senior year in high school. Wait a sec - he's on parole, right?" I stop, thinking.

"He's on parole." Cragen responds.

"If we pick him up, it'd be a parole violation. Enough to get him sent back to Rikers. And I know right where he is, too. Let's go."

I kill the engine outside of a familiar bar. "Riley's Pub. Two blocks from our old place." I explain to Elliot. "Mike used to hang out here, after his father got on his case."

I step out onto the curb, with him behind me, solid and strong. I push through the door and into the bar. The thick smoke and the heavy scent of liquor nearly chokes me. I haven't been into a dive like this since my mother died. The cop bars are pretty much smoke-free - I haven't met that many guys on the job who smoke. It's just a common-sense thing. The lights are dim, leaving shadows in the corners. I scan them with practiced eyes, trying not to gag.

The click of pool balls cuts through the laughter, conversation and pouring of drinks. A full house tonight. Bartender's a busy man, I notice, seeing him mixing two drinks at once.

"There he is. Barstool on the right of the guy in the red Yankees cap and the black t-shirt." I lean in close to my partner, to whisper in his ear.

"I got him." Elliot responds. "Black jacket, blue jeans. What'd you say we act as a couple, huh?"

I grin. Seeing me with a guy might really piss Mike off, but then again, it might be easier than just approaching him. It might make things go easier. With this many people in the bar, I don't want to risk him getting violent. He's just gotten out of prison - he won't go back, quietly.

I hide my gun under my coat and slip onto a barstool beside my partner. He drapes one arm over my shoulders, and I blink, a little confused for a second. Then I remember. I grin at him, playing the girlfriend.

"What can I do you for?" The older bartender comes over.

"Irish on the rocks for me and a beer for the lady." I feel his arm slip around my waist.

I see a glance shot our way and look into familiar dark eyes. We've got Lombardo's attention. Just a little more and we'll have him.


	7. Six

The door to the pub opens and the guy sitting beside you, wearing a Yankees ball cap, half-falls off his barstool, staring. "Lucky bastard." He comments into his beer. "Look at that girl, man."

The girl he mentioned leans in close to her companion, speaking quietly in his ear. Her face is obscured from your view, for a minute, but she's long and tall, like a model. Black leather jacket, blue jeans and boots. She pulls away, as he puts one arm around her, protectively, almost. When she straightens up, you blink. You have to be seeing things.

There she is. Right in front of you. Chocolate eyes, that long, slim nose and the pointed, stubborn chin. She pushes her hair out of her face and walks by, not even acknowledging you. The guy with her - it's the man you saw the night you watched the precinct. Her partner, you thought. So maybe they are lovers. "I used to date that girl." You comment to Ball Cap.

He shakes his head. "Man, you're kidding. No way in hell a girl like that's gonna touch you with a ten-foot pole."

"I used to date her. A while ago."

"Oh. She's an old girlfriend. She look like that, before?"

"Better. Long hair. And she wasn't hanging onto the arm of another guy." You down your beer.

"Stings, doesn't it? You lose 'em, and then you see 'em with some other asshole."

You nod.

"Legs on that girl. . . . " Your new drinking companion whistles. "Wish she'd walk over here."

"She won't. I just know. She's with that asshole." You order another beer.

"Sucks, doesn't it? All the good-looking ones are taken."

"Mm." You hear a click of heels on the floor, as a woman walks by. You watch, closely. It's her. But she still doesn't stop to acknowledge you. She walks into the ladies' room, and the man that came with her sits on his stool and waits. Five minutes later, she comes back across the floor. You finally get the nerve to speak. "Mandy?"

She turns, her dark eyes confused. "Excuse me?"

Of course she wouldn't answer to that. It was an old nickname you had for her. "Olivia?"

"Do I know you?" She questions, confused.

"I . . . . " She probably doesn't recognize you.

She walks away, and rejoins her companion.

A few minutes later, when you're ordering your third beer, she comes back. "Hi, Mikey." She grins and reaches behind her, when her companion places a hand on your shoulder. Damn it! She's a cop. Crap.

"Get up." She orders, pulling steel handcuffs from her belt. You obediently get up and let her cuff you. You learned years ago that it was easier not to fight with the cops. Her male companion starts the familiar speech: 'Michael Lombardo, you are under arrest. . . . '

You find yourself in a holding cell, in the place called Central Booking. They're shipping you back to Rikers in the morning. You busted into her apartment. You broke the law. It's a minor charge. It's not even a felony. But being arrested is a violation of your parole.

You hear a click of heels on the floor, again. You glance up, seeing her standing there, looking at you. "You're sick, Lombardo." She comments, softly, standing back from the bars. "You're a sick freak. They should have left you locked up."

You can't say a word. Her rejection is ripping your heart out. She's going to make you bleed, before she's done. Those words from her mouth hurt. "You deserve to be locked up. And I don't want anything to do with you."

You look at her. Doesn't she see the pain she's causing? Or does she even care? You get up to face her. "Mommy's little dark-eyed girl. That's all you were, Olivia. Mommy's girl. Always running back home to take care of her, when she didn't do a thing for you."

She raises her chin, stubbornly. She's ignoring you.

"So what the hell did you tell her? What the hell did I do to you! Why'd you run!" Your voice echoes, bouncing off the stone around you.

She steps back, more than a little scared. You can see it in her eyes. "You were a control freak. You wanted to control me, Mike. Make me do what you wanted me to do and nothing else. I'm sorry, but I couldn't live like that."

"I treated you better than most men ever would have! You know that! What the hell did you tell your mother! Did you fill her head with all kinds of crap - lies and stories? Huh? What kind of little sob story did you feed her?"

"What do you mean?"

"I called you, one day, and she picked up. She gave me hell, for hurting you and then she hung up. What the hell did I do to you! What the hell did I ever do to you! I never hurt you."

"You tried to control me. I didn't like that. And maybe I said some things to her because I was angry and she took them seriously. I don't know."

"Then you disappeared. Why'd you do that to me? Disappear like that?"

"I had to move on." She shakes her head.

"I tried to call you, but I couldn't find your number." You look at her, standing in front of a caged you, hands shoved snugly in her pockets. "That was all I wanted, sweetheart. I just wanted some answers."

"I took my number out of the book, after a case went nasty." She replies, quietly.

"Are you married?" You hope to hell she's happy.

She shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Boyfriend?"

"No. But I don't want anything to do with you." She shudders. "You - you're a pervert. No two ways around it."

"Please." You can't watch her walk away from you again. "No. Don't. You - we can talk."

"I put scum like you away every day." She says, her voice low, her eyes hard. "You're gonna tell me that prison's changed you and you're not going to do it again. Guess what? I know you're lying to me. You still wanna go out and find some poor innocent woman. You don't change. Prison doesn't do a damn thing to you. It just keeps you off the streets. You belong in prison. After you do you thing, I gotta go in and try to pick up the pieces. Talk to the women you rape, and hold their hands as they get poked and prodded. I have to sit there and make them talk about it. Your kind - prison doesn't do a damned thing. You never change."

"Your father was one of my kind." You comment, quietly.

She throws you another hard stare. "My father isn't someone I know. You I know. Actually, I don't know you. The man I knew wasn't a rapist. I don't know who the hell you are."

She turns and walks away, easily. One of the uniformed cops opens the door for her and shuts it with a hard clang. One that echoes through your brain. You just watched her walk away again. You can't believe it. How did you screw it up again?

The pain rips through you again. Damn it. Why can't she just leave you alone? There are other women in the world. Why does she have to torture you like this? Why? Her rejection hurt. It hurt worse than all the years of missing her have.

Hearing her cut you down, telling you what she thinks about you, with that cold, hard look in her eyes hurt. Missing her was easier. Now that you've heard her reject you, the pain's deep in your chest again.

You're not going to sleep tonight. Seeing her like that - cold, hard and distant is giving you chills. She was never like that. Ever. You rub your eyes. She always has to screw you over. Women, in general, always screw you over. That's why you did what got you sent to prison in the first place.

But you don't want to go back. You've had a taste of freedom and you don't want to give it up. You don't want to go back to that boring, repetitious prison lifestyle, where you were little more than a number. You want to be a human being again.


	8. Epilogue, aka seven

I glance up from my desk, the morning after my encounter with Mike down at Central Booking. It scared me a little, to see him. I didn't even know him. Cragen steps out, a pink slip in his hand. "We got something, boss?" I question, shoving back my chair.

"Michael Lombardo was found dead this morning in his cell at Rikers." He says, his eyes flat.

"What?" I look at him, startled.

"He hung himself. No note, no nothing. You don't have to worry about him, Liv."

I sigh. "I hate to think that I drove him to that, Cap. It makes me feel responsible."

"You didn't. You know, you were right. Most normal people do move on. It takes some longer than others, but it's been fifteen years since you broke up with him. Most people do move on by then."

"But I still. . . . "

"Liv, rapists are cowards. He didn't want to face the world, so he took himself out of it. He didn't have the balls to face reality." And he disappears back into his office, as silently as he came out.


End file.
